


The Blackout

by JehanFerres



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assault, England (Country), Everyone Has Issues, F/M, M/M, Mugging, Really dark, bahorel's laughing mistress' name is rosalie, combeferre has asthma, i like to hurt combeferre, i will fight you on that one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JehanFerres/pseuds/JehanFerres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a blackout. It doesn't go down well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look at all those pairings.
> 
> Anyway, this is based off of a Channel Four Documentary about a blackout spanning the entireity of Britian and I thought it would be amusing but it was actually about the perseverence of the human spirit and I spent about 95% of it crying or wanting to cry about it because JFC it was crazy emotional.
> 
> Naturally I decided that a Les Mis AU of it was necessary because that is a normal reaction to sad things - so here it is.
> 
> The first chapter mostly focuses on the preliminary reactions of Enjolras, Jehan, Combeferre and Claquesous to the blackout, and there is a trigger-warning for violence and mugging for Combeferre's parts here. I don't know where Feuilly/Montparnasse came from as a pairing but it makes sense for some reason so it stays.

Naturally, Combeferre was working when the lights went out. He assumed it was simply in the University and that somebody had blown something up, so, after the original panic had subsided and he had taken a few puffs of his inhaler (because he had nearly dropped a scalpel through his foot and it had un-nerved him), he started the walk back to his apartment, checking his ‘phone to see if there was any information about the blackout from anyone else.

Naturally, there was none.

Combeferre put his things into his bag, and set off, deciding to take a shortcut down a back alley.

This, he would later reflect, was the first mistake he made that evening.

The second was not fighting back.

However, five minutes down the line – and two minutes down an alleyway in which a man in a mask which he presently didn’t need lurked – Combeferre began to get a strange feeling that he was being watched, and began to regret not taking his car that morning, or asking Jehan to drop him off or something.

Of course, he wasn’t aware that at least ten accidents had occurred within the first three minutes of all the electricity in the country abruptly dying, and that he and Jehan would probably be dead by now if he hadn’t decided to walk.

The feeling that he was being watched intensified rapidly, and continued to do so as he passed something which he dismissed as a shadow – until the aforementioned shadow leaped out at him, punched him across the face and demanded his bag. As he was in no mood to argue, Combeferre agreed, and tossed the bag onto the ground.

There was a sudden pain in his jaw, and that was when he realised that this not-quite-shadow had pulled a knife on him and cut his jaw. The pain wasn’t excruciating – not as bad as the pain in his chest (fuck this was the second asthma attack in five minutes and he didn’t have an inhaler because that was in his bag–) – but it wasn’t an experience he wished to repeat.

However, he could hear the gridlock and sirens all across London; he had no desire to clog the system up further, so he attempted to send a text to Enjolras, praying that it would get through somehow: fortunately the attacker hadn’t taken his phone.

After a couple of minutes, Enjolras texted him back, presumably aware that he wasn’t able – or willing – to talk as he tried to get his breathing back to normal – he told Enjolras where he was, and then waited. When his breathing failed to get back to normal, he texted Enjolras to ask if he could possibly bring an inhaler from Jehan’s, because he knew that he had at least one spare there.

All told, Enjolras arrived after about half an hour – Combeferre heard him run down the alley, and even though his chest was still tight and the collar of his shirt was saturated with blood when the man arrived, he still managed to smile.

Enjolras sat down beside him, putting a hand on his back and giving Combeferre the inhaler, which was in his pocket. Combeferre needed a couple of minutes to get back to normal, but once he did he managed to level Enjolras with a shockingly serious look, mumbling, “I really hope you didn’t drive here…” into his friend’s hair.

“I had to – it’s too far to walk and the Tube is down,” he said.

“Wait – wh-what?” Combeferre asked, still gasping somewhat. Enjolras rubbed his back gently. “Why is everything…?” He gasped for breath, startling Enjolras, and took another couple of puffs on the inhaler. “Why is everything down?”

“National Grid failure. Of course, Whitehall is still-”

“Don’t want to hear it, Gabriel.”

Combeferre had guessed as much: besides which, Enjolras could be incensed about the fact that Whitehall somehow had power tomorrow at the Musain: now, they needed to get out of the dangerous alley; Combeferre was in no mood for his best friend to be mugged as well – particularly given that Enjolras was the sort to fight back, and he hadn’t done so.

“Come on,” Enjolras said gently, once Combeferre’s wheezing had subsided for the most part: he would probably still not be completely okay until he got to somewhere warmer, but it was a start. Enjolras still helped the older man up, however. “I imagine Jehan will be getting worried; I had to go to his for a spare inhaler.”

Combeferre nodded, leaning his head on Enjolras’ shoulder as they made their way back to the car to Jehan’s flat. In theory it should have taken little more than ten minutes, but it took them about half an hour in reality, during which Combeferre became increasingly woozy from blood-loss and asthma. Enjolras drove more carefully than usual, constantly looking over at him.

Of course, the lift was broken.

Combeferre was mostly okay getting up the one flight of stairs to Jehan’s flat, however, which Enjolras was glad of. It took longer than usual and Combeferre spent most of the time with his hand pressed against his jaw to prevent further blood-loss: on top of his jaw, his lip was split, and his nose was bleeding badly – Enjolras had thought it might be broken, but some gentle prodding later had shown that it was only bruised, luckily.

Jehan, to give credit where it was due, didn’t seem remarkably surprised by Combeferre’s injuries – Enjolras knew that this was not because it was something he’d seen a hundred times before because Combeferre was no more a fighter than Bahorel was a pacifist – however, he had probably been expecting injuries, as Enjolras had told him that Combeferre had been mugged.

Enjolras went into the kitchen of Jehan’s small flat – ostensibly to make tea, but really so that he could give Jehan and Combeferre some time on their own to work out what had actually happened: while Combeferre would have appeared, to somebody who didn’t know him as well as Jehan and Enjolras, to be completely calm, Enjolras had seen him worrying the inside of his cheek the whole of the journey there, and when the door had opened he had tensed momentarily, not to mention the very slight but obviously there tremor in his hands. So Enjolras made tea with the mostly-warm water still in the kettle, while trying extremely hard not to eavesdrop.

When he returned with tea a few minutes later, Jehan was leaning against the arm of the sofa, Combeferre having gone to try to remove some of the blood from his face and get a better idea of how badly injured he was: Jehan and Enjolras both recognised this as a bad sign – while Combeferre was inclined to be far from clingy, Enjolras had expected him to want some help: however, Jehan reported, he had seemed cold when he was asked.

When Combeferre returned a couple of minutes later, he had managed to affix a plaster to his jaw, even though he was shaking.

Enjolras didn’t bother to come up with an excuse for leaving this time.

“You…” Jehan was also shaky, seeming paler than was usual for him. “It doesn’t seem pretty out there – you may as well just stay on the sofa tonight,” he told Enjolras, shrugging his narrow shoulders a little. Enjolras nodded, not realising until now just how exhausted he was – Jehan found him blankets and a pillow (Combeferre had gone to bed. Enjolras knew he wasn’t okay, beyond all reasonable doubt), and then went to bed himself.

As he had said he would be earlier – a conversation which Enjolras had been quietly rattling mugs during in an attempt to avoid accidental eavesdropping: Combeferre was nothing if not private, especially where his relationship with Jehan was concerned – Combeferre had gone to bed, although Jehan was aware as he sloughed off his clothes and pulled on an oversized sweater (which actually belonged to Combeferre) and pyjama trousers (it was cold – and, with the power out, it would get more so overnight –, and Combeferre would probably not want to have anyone near him, let alone cuddle) that he was most definitely not asleep.

Within a couple of minutes of Jehan getting into bed, Combeferre had rolled towards him, leaning his head against the poet’s shoulder. Jehan wrapped an arm around his shoulder, absently rubbing his thumb over his back, and he supposed – because Combeferre fell extremely still and quiet – that he had fallen asleep. Jehan curled up under the multitude of quilts he had produced from the cupboards when the power went out, and, somehow, fell asleep.

Combeferre was, thankfully, still there in the morning – especially when he was agitated, he had a habit of getting out of bed and going to God-knows-where early in the morning, which wouldn’t have bothered Jehan had Combeferre actually told him where he was going.

Enjolras was not missing either, but he was sat up (although he was still wrapped in blankets), and scribbling on a sheet of paper that had been in his bag, his ‘phone pressed to his ear. Jehan guessed that he was making a phone call of Great Importance, so didn’t want to interrupt, although Enjolras nodded up at him. Jehan waved, and set about seeing if there was anything that he could eat for breakfast. When he discovered that there was not, he sighed, gave up, and went back to bed.

Combeferre had woken up by this point, and was sat up, looking rather bleary, with one hand against the plaster on his jaw. Jehan wanted to kiss him, but he also wanted not to end up with blood from his split lip all over the bed – instead, he curled into Combeferre’s arms, leaning his head against his chest.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

Combeferre shrugged in response, mumbling, “Shit,” against the top of Jehan’s head and curling his arms around the poet’s waist.

Jehan could feel him shaking, and gently squeezed his hand. “You’ll be okay. We all will,” he assured him gently.

“I fucking hope so.” Combeferre’s voice was muffled against the top of his head, but even so, Jehan could hear the obvious tremor. He wrapped his arms tightly around Combeferre’s neck, resting one hand on the back of his head.

He knew that it probably wouldn’t be okay for a while, but he also knew that Combeferre needed him to say that it would.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet more Jehan/Combeferre.
> 
> Combeferre is jumpy and Enjolras is insensitive pretty much though.

Combeferre was still visibly shaky by the time they had to get going to the Musain, although he was less so: Jehan assumed that he had just managed to burn himself out through crying and worrying, and even though the poet himself felt as though bursting into tears would be something to do right now, he supposed that he needed to stay strong for his boyfriend’s sake.

They had to walk to the Musain, as everything was down, and that was when everything was at its worst for Combeferre: even though he appeared to be completely okay (aside from the cut on his jaw and split lip and bruised nose), he was anxiously gripping Jehan’s hand as tight as he could, and when somebody brushed against him Jehan heard the sudden intake of breath and felt Combeferre’s nails dig anxiously into the back of his hand. Jehan wanted to try to calm him down again but he wasn’t entirely sure how he was meant to do that.

When they reached the Musain, everybody else (including Enjolras) was already there - presumably the others had been warned by Enjolras about what had happened to Combeferre, because nobody looked twice at him - despite this, however, Jehan knew that he was scared, and he was scared too.

They sat with Grantaire at the back, Combeferre with his head on his arms and Jehan leaning against him and cuddling him close. Grantaire had a hand on Combeferre’s back as well; Jehan knew that he was concerned as Enjolras talked.

“The situation, my friends,” Enjolras said proudly, “is, frankly, deplorable - while I had no hand in this blackout, I would have been proud to.”

Enjolras continued to talk, until Combeferre (he had been shaking to begin with) finally got up and left. Jehan and Grantaire looked at each other - he had been sitting between the two of them - and then began to wait for Enjolras to notice the fact that his best friend is missing.

“Jehan, shouldn’t we…?” Grantaire made a face.

Jehan shook his head. “No - he… he hates anyone to see him upset and I’m no exception to that rule. Neither are you.” He looked up at Enjolras, who was still talking loudly about the situation - he looked around and frowned at the lack of Combeferre sat with Jehan and Grantaire, but then he just seemed to give up. “No - I’ll see how he’s doing when Enjolras is finished. If he’s crying he won’t want me to know.”

“But you do know.”

“It’s best to pretend for his sake.”

“Ah.” Grantaire nodded and turned back to the front. “It unsettles people, I suppose,” he said softly, moving over to sit beside Jehan. The poet leaned against him with a slight nod, squeezing Grantaire’s shoulder. “But… but won’t he know that you know he was crying?”

“Of course he will,” Jehan said. “He… I don’t know. He odd about letting people see him cry. Even at school he’d go as far away as he could from everybody else when he was upset. He’s like… I suppose he just always tries to appear as though he’s strong but just… he isn’t, really.”

“Doesn’t want to worry anyone?” Grantaire suggested, to which Jehan nodded.

Combeferre didn’t return by the end of the speech as Jehan and Grantaire had expected him to - he knew that the philosopher would be too nervous to let anyone near him if he was crying but he did at least want to know what was wrong because if he was upset maybe Jehan would be able to do something about it and help him.

That was, of course, highly unlikely.

However, Combeferre had gone through to the backroom of the Musain - he had curled up on one of the sofas and Jehan just knew that he’d been crying and for a moment he didn’t know whether to leave or stay because even though Combeferre looked as though he wanted to have some privacy he was shaking and just not okay.

Jehan delegated with himself for a moment, but then went to sit beside him. At this, Combeferre seemed to jerk back into consciousness, honestly looking a little frightened, but when he realised it was Jehan he curled back into himself.

Jehan gently kissed his forehead and put his arms around him. “Once you’re feeling a little better we’ll go home, okay?” he said softly.

Combeferre buried his head in his hands and sobbed; Jehan leaned his cheek against the top of the man’s head and pressed a gentle kiss into his hair. “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he reassured softly. Even though he seemed to relax a little, Combeferre whimpered. “I know,” Jehan said softly. “You’re okay. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s okay.” He put his hand on the back of the philosopher’s head, stroking his hair gently until the trembles subsided and Combeferre had stopped crying - he stayed with his head against Jehan’s chest.

When Combeferre looked back up at Jehan, he honestly couldn’t have looked less okay - he was obviously tense and streaked with tear-tracks on his cheeks, and he couldn’t quite meet Jehan’s eye, but at least he wasn’t crying any more. “Do you want me to talk to him?” Jehan asked, after a few seconds of silence - Combeferre nodded, and Jehan quietly set about cleaning the tear-tracks from his face. “You… I know you might not want to talk but you haven’t said anything at all about yesterday. It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me, but you can if it would help?” Jehan asked softly, dabbing at Combeferre cheeks with the ends of his sleeves.

After a couple of seconds, Combeferre pushed his hands away. “Just… it isn’t something I want to happen again. Got punched and stabbed.” He tried to shrug, but just ended up hunched up. Jehan pulled him close, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Don’t worry about it.” He still hugged the poet back.

“Of course I’m going to worry, love,” Jehan said softly. “You’re hurt and you know I can’t stand to see you like this. It really is okay if you don’t want to talk, now or at all, but just… I promise I’m here for you if you need me to be.” He lightly kissed the top of Combeferre’s head again. When he looked down, the older man was crying again. Jehan made a soothing noise into his hair. “Do you need your inhaler?” he asked gently.

“N-no. I’m fine,” Combeferre managed to choke out, shaking his head. Jehan could hear the philosopher starting to wheeze, though, so he pulled it out of his pocket anyway, in case he needed it, before returning to calming his boyfriend down.

It took a while, but Jehan finally managed to stop Combeferre from crying - but he still had his head against Jehan’s chest, and he was obviously tearful. He occasionally sniffed and curled silently against Jehan’s shoulder.

“Do you need me to speak to Enjolras? I don’t want this to happen again,” he said softly, as Combeferre sat up. Jehan kissed his forehead, resting his hands against the older man’s cheeks.

“I... I should be able to talk to him. He’ll understand. And you know how stupid he can be,” Combeferre whimpered.

Jehan nodded understandingly. “That’s alright,” he soothed.

“I-I know he didn’t mean for it to sound like that, but just…” Combeferre sighed.

“I understand, darling,” Jehan said softly, nodding. Combeferre hugged him close, shaking. “I promise I won't let it happen to you again,” he mumbled. “Honest.”

Combeferre leaned over, finally, reaching up slightly, and pressed his lips gently against Jehan’s: he was obviously cautious because of the split lip and general anxiety and Jehan would usually have liked to bite him a little just to hear the noises he made (because fucking hell Combeferre made very attractive sounds when Jehan bit him), but he knew that that would go down badly right now so he gently kissed the older man and tried not to do anything that would hurt, however much Jehan wanted to bite him and pull his hair.

But that wouldn’t be appropriate for a while.


End file.
